


New Life

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Erotica, F/M, First Time, New Lovers, Odd-Pair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1847440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written in an attempt to satisfy a request from an old friend and beloved reader. I don't think I managed to do what she hoped--she really wanted Janine to meet Lestrade in his "Cockaigne" magic realism mode. That refused to materialize. Instead what I got was two good, adult people adrift and alone at a time in their social group when being adrift and alone aches a bit. So I let them find each other, and find each other to be good. </p><p>Happy sex. May be a one-shot for both of them. May turn into more. I honestly don't know having written it whether they would pursue it further, or be content with happy chance--no strings, and much fondness in the memory. Maybe you, as the reader, would have to decide that for yourself.</p><p>Fairly graphic, and the first time in a long time that I've attempted F/M het sex. Hope it works well--both as pleasing erotica and as character study that seems "right" for the two in question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Life

After the word went out that it would be a difficult birth…

After the family and friends gathered around…

After the helper-rosters were planned out…

After the backup plans were put in place…

After the early trip to the hospital…

After the long wait, over days…

After the baby was born, safe…

And the mother survived…

And the father wept in awe…

And the best friend held the child…

And the mother, worn but victorious, smiled at them all…

These two  remained.

“She’s a beautiful baby, isn’t she?” Lestrade asked.

 “Yes,” Janine said. “Blue eyes, like her parents.”

 _His_ eyes were brown, though; his hair was silver brindle. She’d seen him at John and Mary’s wedding and wondered a bit that Sherlock never assessed him as a possibility for her—he was handsome, no ring. He looked lonely. Did Sherlock think he was too old for her? Too good for her? Not good enough? Later she’d thought perhaps Sherlock had been sticking with the almost-rans, hoping to ask her out—as he did, later.

Still…

“He called you ‘Scotland Yard,’” she said, smiling, a bit unsure of herself.

He had a great smile—even when he was laughing at himself, it was bright and open and a distinct. His eyes crinkled with crow’s feet…but, God, he looked good.

“It’s really the Met,” he said. “New Scotland Yard—that’s a building.  And they’re shoving us into another new one soon enough. But people still think of it as Scotland Yard.”

“It’s good to meet you, then, Scotland Yard.”

He laughed. “Nah. Not…that’s just Sherlock.” He held out a hand. “Greg. Greg Lestrade. And you were Mary’s maid of honor.”

“Yeah. Janine.”

“Worked for that Magnussen fellow, right?”

She shrugged. Some things she didn’t like to talk about. “The rain’s just pissing down out there. I was going to take a taxi to Sherlock’s—he’s letting me use John’s old bedroom while all this is going on. Do you want to share a ride?”

“No need. Why don’t you let me save you some—I can give you a ride over.”

She considers. “Tell you what, Scotland Yard—I’ll let you give me a lift over if you’ll let me buy you brekkers on the way over. I’m that hungry, I am. Been a long night.”

“Full English?” His eye gleamed with amusement—and maybe a trace of longing? “The works?”

“You can have your full English, yeah. I’ll take full Irish if you know anyplace that has it on offer.”

“I think O’Niell’s over at King’s Cross has Irish…no English, though.” He paused. “How much does it matter?”

She laughed, amused at the forlorn look on his face. “Not so much, so long as I get toast and eggs and a rasher or two. Why?”

“There’s a place my ex and I went once or twice before the breakup—as a treat. Best breakfast… _best_. All sorts—you can pretty much order what you want. But they’ve got a great English, and another breakfast for two. Just thought—I’d as soon wet the baby’s head in hot coffee and orange juice as scotch, at this time of night.”

“Day.”

“Whatever.”

“Is it on the way?”

“Not really,” he said, that sunshine smile beaming bright. “But it’s worth the detour, right?”

She laughed. “My treat?”

“Splits?”

“You’re driving.” She frowned, determined he not feel obliged to be noble.

“Yeah, but you’re in from out of town. I’m the host.”

She sniffed. “A technicality. I lived in the city long enough I don’t count any more. And I’ve got money to cover it.”

He chuckled, mischief flashing in those fine brown eyes. “Yeah. Heard about that.”

“Sherlock still sulking?” she asked, appreciating his amusement. He could have just hated her for spinning Sherlock to the tabloids the way she had—but he seemed to find it funny, not vicious. Which was good, as Sherlock wasn’t upset by it…just peeved to be bested.

“Sherlock’s taken to bragging about it,” he said. “I think he’s proud of you.” He shot her a sidewise glance. “Are you two…?”

“If we are, he hasn’t gotten around to letting _me_ know about it, the perishin’ gobshite.” She snorted. “Doubt he dares, after last time. Give him a think to think about, I would, if he tried.”

“Not interested, then?”

“Didn’t say that, now, did I?” She grinned when he laughed. “It would depend on the quality of the apology…assuming he ever gave one.”

“Then there’s no reason not to take you to breakfast?”

She cocked an eye at him, taking him in. He was tall—if not so tall as Sherlock. He was old enough her mam would squall, but he carried it a treat. Easy on the eye, and there was something about him…something sweet and dark and decadent as chocolate. Manly, with none of the brutality some people meant when they used that word. She felt the prickle of goose bumps rising over her shoulders. He was exciting…in a _good_ way.

“No,” she said. “No reason at all not to take me to breakfast.”

“Then let’s go raise a toast to young Miss Watson.”

His car was like he himself was—an older model, and a bit scruffy, but sound and solid and comfortable. The paint was a softly dulled silver that went well with his hair—but she’d heard one in four cars in England were silver, so she doubted it was a matter of vanity. He drove well, navigating city traffic without stress or dismay. She said so.

“Me,” she added, “I’ve not got the temper for it. Start swearing at the first arse who cuts me off, and keep on till I get where I’m going. Terrible temper, I have.”

Again, he laughed. It pleased her that he enjoyed her sass. She’d got enough long faced and disapproving suitors over the years. Not to mention Sherlock, who sometimes just didn’t get the joke in the first place.

The place he took her to was in Central London, not far from the London Wall. To her amazement he found a parking spot less than two blocks from the address, then dredged a battered folding umbrella from under the driver’s seat.

“Wait there,” he said, then eased out of the car, putting the umbrella up with surprising skill. He scuttled around to the passenger side, then handed her out of the car with determination if not enormous grace. But, she thought, letting him tuck her hand into the turn of his elbow, who needed enormous grace if they were gifted with enormous charm? The smile, the eyes, the sincere good will, the laughter, all came together there under the worn umbrella.

Breakfast was even better than he’d said. They splurged on the [two-person](http://thehawksmoor.com/breakfast-brunch-roasts) [house special](http://thehawksmoor.com/wp-content/uploads/menus/GH-BREAKFAST.pdf) then settled in, dividing their time evenly between food and laughter.

“So Sherlock’s standing over this fetid corpse like Winston Churchill bellowing about ‘blood, toil, tears, and sweat,' one foot on either side of the body, finger in the air as he lectures Anderson, when _plurf!_ It blows up. The look on his face…” He stopped. “Not breakfast conversation…”

She was dying, though, giggling so hard she could barely manage a bit of toast and marmalade. “Eh, no, don’t worry. Sherl…I can see his face. I can just see it…”

He grinned at her. “Ruined his nice trousers.”

“Bet it did. So what did he say?”

His eyes twinkled. “Any guesses?”

“Besides ‘I meant to do that,’ like a cat? No. Not a one.”

“Almost as good. He looked at Anderson and said, ‘And now that I’ve demonstrated the principle of intestinal fermentation of the corpse, I expect you to remember it.’”

“I know I’ll remember it, and I wasn’t even there!” She cocked her head, then, and added, “Why, DI Lestrade, I do believe you’re ogling my grilled mushroom.”

“Not ogling, so much as observing. Sherlock’s trained me, you see.”

“No, now, that’s an ogle, if I ever saw one.” She speared the mushroom and slipped it over to his side. “I can’t resist a puppy-eyed inspector. Here—have it.” She gave a little mock sob. “For you, I’ll sacrifice anything.”

He waggled his brows. “Anything?”

She thought about it. “Almost anything. What about you? If I ogled your black pudding, would you go halvsies on it?”

“Consider it yours, all yours.”

She told him about bees, and about Sherlock calling her at least twice a week to make suggestions about what to do with them. He told her about crime cases, and about Sherlock calling him at least twice a week to make suggestions about what to do with them. He told her about the divorce—not much, but the socially mandatory amount to establish that there was one, and that it was concluded long since. She told him about her face-down with Sherlock in the hospital. Then he told her about Sherlock climbing out the hospital window and having to go hunting for him. Then she told him about staying up all hours waiting for Sherlock to come home stoned for a “case.”

“Still not sure it wasn’t all blarney,” she said, grimly. “Seemed a might enthusiastic for ‘a case’ if you ask me.”

He nodded, soberly. “Yes. That’s Sherlock. He says ‘case.’ The rest of us see Sherlock finding…reasons…”

“Yeah. Got a bit of a problem.”

They were silent.

“Do we have to go?” she asked. “Don’t you have work?”

“Cleared through the end of the week just in case they needed me,” he said.

“Good friend!”

He shrugged. “They don’t usually need me. Didn’t this time, anyway. Thank God.”

“So, if there’s no rush, how about more mushrooms and some more coffee for you and more tea for me?”

“Not bored?”

“I live alone in Sussex. I talk to bees—and not just because Sherlock told me to. Not bored. You?”

“I live alone in London. Sometimes Sherlock and John talk to me. Not bored. God. No. Not bored. Taking up your time when you could be mending fences with Sherlock, though…you may not want to thank me for that.”

“Sherlock can look after himself, _a stòr._ So—take our time?”

He smiled. He had a dimple. She thought she might just die. A dimple, a hint of a cleft chin, and eyes to lie down and die for….

“Good, then,” she said, flustering. “Tell you what, you order for us. I’ll go off and be back in a mo’…” She slipped out of her seat and headed for the Ladies’ like a seed out of a grapefruit—split!

Once there she locked herself in a stall, then she slipped out her phone.

_Shay-shay, are you still awake?_

_Yes. SH_

_Can you tell me one good reason you didn’t suggest your detective friend to me at Mary and John’s wedding?_

_What? SH_

_When you were deducing matches for me. Was there a reason you didn’t deduce Greg?_

_Greg?  Oh. Graham. SH_

_No, Greg. Lestrade. From the Met. You know—cute, grey hair, divorced? Dishy?_

_Dishy? SH_

_Take my word for it, if you don’t see it yourself, Shez. Dishy. So—why didn’t you point him out to me?_

_I don’t believe it occurred to me. SH_

_Why?_

_I don’t know. Because…I don’t know. SH_

_No outstanding reason not to, then?_

_I would ask “not to what.” However, I suspect the answer is obvious. SH_

_And, you great gobshite? Should I run now, while I still can?_

_Is this a ploy to make me jealous? SH_

_Oh. SH_

_Shez, he’s nice. I mean, he seems nice._

_He’s a good man. SH_

_Is that all you can tell me?_

_It’s all I will tell you. SH_

There was a long spell without text messages, in which Janine prepared to go back into the main room. Then, just as her hands and face were washed and she felt almost human, the phone buzzed and she checked.

_He’s not half the detective I am. But…he’s a very good man. SH_

_Is that an endorsement of some kind, Shez?_

_Make of it what you will. Be good to him. SH_

She went out with her heart fluttering and her face on fire. “I know. I know. I might as well have drowned. Texts with Sherlock.”

“What about?” He was polite, she thought, and didn’t turn inside out hearing she’d been in touch with his berk buddy.

“Truth? Asked him why he didn’t try to match me up with you at Mary’s wedding reception. You’d have been an improvement on the gobshite he did stick me with.”

He got the oddest look on his face. “Um. Did he have a reason?”

“Apparently didn’t think of it.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I do kind of drop off his radar, sometimes.”

“Sounds like you wouldn’t have minded if he had thought of it.”

His eyes met hers. “Sounds like you wouldn’t have minded, either.”

She grinned. “You’d have been an upgrade.”

He gave a cheeky grin, then said, a bit ruefully. “I’d say the same but it’s kind of backhanded. I wasn’t there with anyone….”

“Not everyone’s better than nothing… I’d rather go home alone than with a lot of people I can think of.”

His eye and hers locked. He drew a slow, shaky breath. “Is that what we’re talking about?”

“Could be. You tell me.”

One hand came up. His thumb stroked his chin absently, as he looked at her, thinking. Then the dimple appeared again. “I…think I might like that. If we’re not both so tired we fall asleep first.”

“If we do, we do,” she said. “Meantime, pass me those mushrooms and shove the tea pot my way. This is a day to enjoy.”

His grin lit the room…

When they got to his flat, he looked down at her. “It’s not much,” he said. “Bachelor digs. I’m not rich, and I don’t spend all that much time here.”

She snorted, fighting back a desire to make a properly silly face at him. Men could be so unexpectedly surprising. “Love, I went out with _Sherlock._ I stayed over at Baker Street. I’d be there now if I weren’t here. So, tell me…if I cross that threshold, is it going to be worse than Baker Street?”

He laughed, then. “Nnnnnnnnn-no. No, no thumbs in the fridge, no mold growing on petri dishes.”

“Then lead on.”

He fumbled the key, and ushered her in.

It was small—smaller than Baker Street. Plainer. New, in that sad, ugly sort of new-ness that seemed stripped of charm. But it was reasonably clean, with furniture clearly chosen for comfort: big, overstuffed old pieces with sturdy frames and drab colors. There were two medium-sized bookshelves with as many CD and DVD cases as books—but still, plenty of books. There was a [guitar stand](http://api.ning.com/files/gFodpULaPdJdr2GIrNYtG8iUoqPfCmXZBjd69FrnQnViyT1D1KCqLZ2aNV8tiIZ59v2Hpis05hKRzfBPRT-WVHjiNrFpFXW-8rHMJeBbp28_/WM_Front.jpg) with an acoustic guitar hanging from the bracket like a hanged man.

The two stood there, two steps into the flat with the door shut behind them and the sofa sitting ahead of them. She felt a tickle run up her flanks, and a jolt of clenching, swelling heat in her crotch. She gave a shivery breath, looking up into his eyes only to find he looked as excited and panicked as she was. A giggle broke through—she tried to force it back, and failed. The high, hiccupping sound pressed past her fingers as she clutched her hands over her mouth.

“Sorry. Sorry. Not you—nerves. Sorry…”

He laughed, too—less nervouse now that she’d broken the tension. “’S all right. Are…are you sure you want to do this?”

She shrugged. “About as sure as I ever am before a first time. You?”

He gave a small, rather sad little smile. “I like you. And…it’s been a long time. And…Yeah. I like you.” That little smile blossomed into quiet longing, and he traced a finger over her jaw. “Yeah. I like you. You’re something else.”

God, she thought. He was good. He said and did so little, but he managed to pack in a million words unsaid. _“I’m lonely. You’re beautiful. You make me laugh. I want this so bad. This could be good—so good. I’d work to make it good… And God, please, really, I’m lonely…”_ Poised, waiting, hoping—a man like that could break a girl’s heart, she thought. Break it worse than silly Sherlock had managed, for he’d just been a sweet, clueless fool. This one was a lover, and no matter what happened from here on, he’d mark her heart just a bit. Maybe more than a bit.

She stepped close, slipped her arms around his waist, and leaned against him, her face against his shoulder. He leaned down, wrapped his arms around her, breathed into her hair. She could feel a hard-on already beginning to stir, low against her stomach. He nuzzled, found her neck, and laid a single kiss there, in the turn of neck and shoulder, beneath her ear.

“Sofa,” she said.

“Sofa or bed?”

“Sofa. Not—ready for more, yet.”

He didn’t argue, as Sherlock once had, that there was no difference between a sofa and a bed, except that a bed was better designed for what was ultimately intended, and that logic dictated they save themselves an extra staging sequence. Instead he took her hand, drew her after him, and coiled into the corner of the sofa, braced by both arm and back. He tugged, pulling her down against him.

He was as good as she’d thought he might be—as good as his unspoken words had suggested. He knew how to kiss, and how to caress. Best of all, he was shaken by it, making no effort to maintain the kind of frantic detachment Sherlock had struggled for. Not that Sherlock had been entirely successful, but he’d tried so hard, and failed so desperately…

All right, that had been hot, too. But Greg? Melted, shook, sighed. He arched to her touch, rocked against her hungrily, sighed into her mouth, moaned against her collar-bone when her fingers found his fly, tugged it open, and slipped inside. So reactive. So responsive….and all the while his own hands stroked over her, touched, tested, dared more.

Ungh…

“Help me get my top off, love,” she whispered. “That’s going to feel even better with my bra off…”

It did. He had a clever mouth, and he wasn’t afraid to suckle strongly at her teat, tugging, the edge of his teeth just coming into play, his tongue pressing her hard up against his palate. She whined and felt him shake with the sound, moaning it back to her. His hand slip up her skirt and then in past her tights and knickers, meeting wetness, sliding, tracing, finding the nub of her clit and tracing around it, cautious not to overdo.

She swore happily. “Jeeeez, you’re good.”

“Mmmmm.” She thought he mumbled, “You, too,” but it was indistinct, muffled by her own skin.

“So,” she husked. “I’m clean—tested after Shay and I split, just because I don’t trust junkies or their needles. Clean, and nothing since then. You?”

“Clean,” he said. “Nothing but a few shags since I split, and that was with protection—and I work in a job where we test pretty often just in case.”

“Ok, then. I’m safe—IUD. We can do without protection if you like.”

He shivered with it, and rolled his hips against her. “Like. Bed, now?”

“Bed.”

The path to the bedroom was navigated slowly, as they dropped layers of already half-unfastened clothing. It was a mix of mutual assistant, hurried solo action, and foreplay. She toed off her shoes and found she was shorter than she’d have preferred, against his height, but consoled herself that soon it wouldn’t matter. He looked at her with eyes that made her feel beautiful, in spite of her good two stone over the presumed ideal. She looked at him, saw a similar slight excess, saw the signs of encroaching age—and melted, turned to longing for a body both graceful and gracious. Looking at him was like looking at her cottage from the road at sunset, after a long walk on the downs. Her heart lit, and her eyes praised the deep lines of his torso, the strength of his shoulders, the power of his thighs and bum.

“Oh, you’re a lovely man,” she said, smiling with the pleasure of it. “Lovely as sunshine. I could hunger for you like meat hungers for salt, I could. Like tea cries for a bit of sugar.”

His hand stroked over her hair, down her throat, over her breasts, coming to rest at her waist. “You’re a queen…no. An empress.”

“Blarney,” she chuckled, then said, softly, “You can blarney me all you like, love.”

He pulled her close. “Not great with words. But you’re beautiful. All promises fulfilled and nothing held back. Like a ripe peach…” He kissed her hair, cradled her bum in his hands. “All good things.”

After that they couldn’t reach the bed fast enough.

They kept it simple—but simple was good. She spread wide; then, as he settled between her thigh and set himself deep, she wrapped her legs tight around his waist, holding fast, tightening on him inside and out. He bowed over her like the sky bowing over the earth, and rolled and rolled and rolled, his hips keeping a rhythm stead and fierce.

“Mind if I touch myself to speed it on?”

“No…hot. Do it.”

She slipped her hands between them, found her own hotspot, touched and teased. “How can I help you, too?”

“Nnnnng.” He leaned down and his lips sought hers. “Let me hear it. Let me taste. Be there…”

She took his kiss, deepened, it, moaned her pleasure, drove her own hips to meet his pace. Her free hand slipped up and found nipples.

“There?”

“Not so much. Not bad, but…”

She reached up, then, found his arse, teased between his cheeks, and was rewarded with a deep tremore that promised he’d not be lasting long.

“Soon?” she asked.

“Uhhhh….”

“Ok, let me get up that last bit of steam.” She closed her eyes and focused on all the little pleasures. The smell of him, his moan, the pounding demanding thrust, the way he mouthed over her face, panting with desire. She spun her own desire tighter, pushed it into his, raised it, condensed it—and said, “Now. I’m there. Any ti—“

She didn’t get to finish as he roared into his climax, grunting and urgent and fierce with the animal drive. She let go and wailed, a banshee on the battlements, thunder over the roof, rumbling on and on and on, in waves of sound and feeling. Her insides clenched—pussy, arsehole, stomach muscles all clamping and tight. Her thighs held him, pressed him in, pressed him deeper, and her arms came up to hold him to her.

When the storm passed, she was breathless and wrung limp.

“You’re…. That’s… I…” She swallowed and gasped and lay splayed across his mattress. He rolled slowly off of her, a lazy, purposeless glide, like a scoop of ice cream slipping off a cone in hot weather. He seemed to splat beside her.

“God, yeah,” he whispered. “Fuck me, that was good.”

“Just did, and yeah, it was.”

They lay, then, quiet. His hand traced hers; hers traced his.  They didn’t speak, but they leaned near, brushed shoulders, hooked ankles over each other’s.

“Shower?” he asked, eventually.

“Yeah. I stink.”

“Both of us—but sweet.”

“Still not what I want to smell like all day.”

“You leaving after?”

“You want me to?”

She could feel him shake his head. “No. Maybe sleep awhile, wake up in the afternoon. Dinner. Maybe…stay the night?”

“I could get behind that plan.” She smiled. “Share the shower, then?”

He laughed. “And I could get behind that plan.”

She pinned her hair high with a pencil from off of his dresser. He ran the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot or cold before she stepped in. They were tender, and lazy, and he held her close and slid his fingers between the folds of her body and touched her and held her safe while she came one more time, lightly but sweetly. She leaned against him, after, and sighed. “Anything I can do for you?”

“Just did it. God. Been so long since I… Years. Even when I was married, it was years since we…” He went silent, throat shut with loss and loneliness and reaction to the intimacy and the trust. “Been so long,” he said again. “Wasn’t sure I’d ever again…”

She snorted. “Now that’s just stupid. Man like you? You go looking you’ll be beating ‘em off with a stick. Or…”

He smacked her bottom, lightly. “Hush, now. No puns about sticks and beating. You’re a very bad girl, you know.”

“Just proved it to you, didn’-I?”

“Yeah.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

They toweled each other off. He found her a clean t-shirt to wear as a night gown—and wore none himself. They changed the sheets, and settled beneath light, clean cotton with a sigh, listening to the rain fall outside the window.

“Why?” he asked, tucking her close under his arm. “Why me? Why now?”

She hummed and settled against him. “I don’t know. Or…no. I lie.” She sighed. “It was the baby. And John and Mary so happy after all these days afraid. And her such a little love. And Sherlock holding her like she was glass. And I felt like I was standing on the outside looking in at all the could-have-beens there ever were.”

“You want Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. Not a clue. Won’t know until I know how he works it through, now, will I?” She rolled on her side, and lay her jaw along his chest, eyes closed. “And you?”

“Not that different. John. Mary. Sherlock. And the baby.” His voice was quiet, then. “We always wanted kids. Me and the ex. Never got them. Like you say. All the could-have-beens. Had to either laugh or cry, right?”

“Right,” she said, and hugged him to her. “You’re a beautiful laugh, my lovely man. Better than tears any day.”

“Yeah,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. “Yeah. You, too.”

And they slept together, contented, in the cool sheets and the quiet room, as the spring rain fell on London.


End file.
